


Death Wants Your Eternity

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US), True Blood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood Drinking, Blood Play, Blood Sharing, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Disturbing Themes, Drug Distribution, F/F, F/M, Fang-Bangers, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Lesbian Sex, M/M, Mentions of Original True Blood Characters, Original Character(s), Rimming, True Blood AU, Vampire Bars, Vampire Sex, Vampire Turning, Vampires, Violence, Violent Sex, character death (not ian or mickey), mentions of bipolar disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-10-26 09:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10784358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: True Blood AU.Ian Gallagher never had much interest in the Great Revelation and the vampires who have integrated themselves into society. But after being subjected to a fatal hate crime, he develops an appreciation of how the other half live. So to speak.(This fic contains an array of violent, disturbing moments that are canonical to the True Blood universe. If you are triggered by any of the subjects tagged above, proceed with caution. I will include notes above each chapter so please read through those before proceeding. But I really hope you enjoy.)Will be updated sporadically. I'm useless at schedule keeping, ya see. Sowwwyyyy.(Chapters four and seven have been edited. Please re-read if you care enough.)





	1. Chapter 1

Ian had been in hospital when the emergence of vampires had been made public knowledge. He had been decidedly unmoved by the news and had simply gone back to pushing the lump of greyish mashed potato around the plastic tray. In fact, all things considered, the whole thing had stuck him as incredibly tedious. Surely there had to be more fucked up things in the world than the unprecedented appearance of the undead? His brain for instance. Mutinous chemicals and consequent mood swings were far more frightening.

And so, he found himself completely unaffected as he walked towards the White Swallow and the subsequent vampire leaning against the outer wall.

He was pretty, Ian could appreciate that. Pretty in a kind of blunt, don't-fuck-with-me way; something that had always been strangely alluring to Ian. Made for a refreshing change from the geriatrics his daddy issues usually forced him to gravitate towards.  
But Ian would be lying if he said he wasn't attracted to the guy. And, unlike the throng of swooning girls clustered around him, the fact that he was a vampire had nothing to do with it.

Ian continued walking; listening to the steady thrum of some Britney song issuing from inside. He needed a drink. Something that would drown out the resonances of the lithium-booze lecture he had suffered at the hands of his older sister. A few shots of vodka should do the trick. And perhaps a couple lines of coke if available.

As Ian approached the group of evident fang-bangers, the vampire’s eyes flickered towards him. Ian regarded him steadily as he passed, clocking the smirk offered his way. His heart rate quickened slightly; Jesus, the guy was hot. Ian found himself wondering whether he'd be down for a quickie in the bathroom. Seemed unlikely; the guy didn't seem inclined to actually go inside.

“Well aren't you pretty.”

Ian turned, eyebrows raised, trying to ignore the fluttering in his chest. The vampire's head was tilted to one side, smiling playfully. The girls around him turned to glare at Ian.

“Can I help you?” Ian said.

“I don't know,” The vampire pushed himself from the wall, forcing the girl nearest him to stumble backwards, “Can you?”

Ian swallowed at the blatant invitation. He could see himself bending the guy over, hand clamped over his mouth and pounding him within an inch of his life. Figuratively speaking.  
He shook himself mentally and shrugged, “Don't think so, man. You got company.”  
He gestured to the girls. The vampire's gaze didn't waver.

“Already told them,” he said, raising his voice to address them, “Not my type.”

“Vampires don't have a type, baby,” one of them piped up, “Blood’s blood.”

The vampire ignored her and took a step towards Ian, “You down for a little detour from this cumhole?” he licked his lower lip, “I'll make it worth your while.”

Ian felt the all too familiar throb in his dick, “How?”

“Oh you know,” the vampires eyes traced the length of Ian's body, “I'm sure I'll think of something.”

Ian was so tempted to step forward; to just seize the lapels of the guy's jacket and shove his tongue down his throat. Fuck that; he wanted to drop to his fucking knees and suck the guy until he screamed.

“No,” he heard himself say, “Thanks. Meeting someone.”

It was a lie in itself but he guessed it was a matter of self preservation. Who the fuck knew what fucking a vampire would be like? Plus he'd come so far in six months. To abandon it all for the sake of a vicious fuck with an anonymous vampire was ridiculous. Or so he told himself.

The vampire continued to smile and lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug, “Suit yourself. Later, pretty boy.”

And with that, he turned and strolled back down the street, the gaggle of fang-bangers scurrying in his wake.

Ian closed his eyes and fought to calm his racing heart. He didn't know what he felt was regret or relief. Probably a mix.

He turned towards the door of the bar where the bouncer was fixing him with unnerved kind of stare.

“Glad you turned that down, man,” he said as Ian flashed him his ID, “Was gonna call the cops.”

Ian blinked, “Why would you do that?”

“People go missing around here,” the bouncer leant in conspiratorially, “He comes here a lot. Doesn't take a genius.”

“Huh,” Ian said thoughtfully, “I guess not.”

“Just be careful, buddy,” the bouncer stood aside to admit him, “Have a nice night.”

“Thanks,” Ian mumbled as he passed.

The bar was unusually dead for a Friday; the dance floor sparsely populated and the length of the bar even more so. Ian took it as a blessing and crossed the room, nodding in acknowledgment when a few regulars called his name. It was difficult not to feel slightly awkward; given the fact that he had fucked a large portion of them.

The barman, George, smiled at Ian when he took a seat and slid a five dollar bill towards him.

“Blue moon?” he asked, referring to Ian's usual choice of drink.

“Nah,” Ian gestured to the bottle of New Amsterdam above George’s head, “Vodka, neat.”

George raised an eyebrow, “Exploring new territory?”

Ian shrugged, “Something like that.”

“You want to talk about it?” George asked, pulling the bottle down and plucking a glass out from under the bar.

Ian shrugged, “Nothing to talk about really. Sister’s driving me crazy.”

“What’d she do this time?” George slid the drink towards him, “The lithium shit again?”

“Bingo,” Ian said, knocking the vodka back and grimacing as it seared his throat, “Seems to think she's my fucking nurse.”

“S’ only because she cares, man. Could do a lot worse.”

“I don't need a caretaker,” Ian said bluntly. He shoved the empty glass to one side and looking at George expectantly, “Keep them coming.”

“I know you don't want to talk about it,” George reached up and seized the bottle for the second time, “But how are you? Really?”

Ian frowned, “What’d you mean?”

“You seem edgy.”

“I'm fine.” Ian replied curtly, before aggressively nodding at the bottle in George’s hand, “You gonna pour that any time soon?”

George rolled his eyes, acknowledging the futility of his attempt at concern, and promptly placed the vodka in front of Ian, “Have it. On the house.”

Ian gave him a half smile, “Thanks, George.”

 

As the night wore on and the contents of the bottle steadily receded, Ian found himself perusing the dance floor. A couple were jerking each other off to the beat of Lady Gaga. Some other guy was not so subtly snorting coke off an ill concealed key. Another was making a ridiculous attempt at go go dancing. And still people danced; oblivious to everything other than the pounding music. Blissful. Free.

It was nauseating.

“Hey, Ian,” George patted his arm gently, “I’m gonna have to cut you off, babe.”

Ian tried to focus, “Why?”

“Because you're wasted, man,” he said, almost apologetically, “You need to get home.”

Ian tried to engage his brain enough to protest. He was nowhere near drunk enough to go home.

“M’ fine,” he managed to mumble, “Just need a few more.”

“What part of cutting off don't you understand?” George replied with a laugh, “Come on, man. Get yourself a cab. Go home.”

“Can't afford it,” Ian slurred.

George considered him for a moment before sliding a hand into his pocket a pulling out a twenty dollar bill, “Take it.”

It took several swipes of his hand before Ian managed to seize the bill and mutter a word of thanks. He tottered slightly when he stood; the room lurching horribly. He could just about make out the exit through his swimming vision.

He made his way towards it somewhat unsteadily; stumbling several times and apologising to whoever he had to clutch for balance. Sometimes they offered help, but most of them threw him a filthy look and extricated themselves with a muttered curse.

The bouncer grinned as Ian finally lurched past him, “Good night?”  
Ian gave a vague wave that neither confirmed or denied the question and started wandering aimlessly along the sidewalk. He tried to excavate some semblance of practicality from his alcohol addled brain. Through the mental fog, he figured he'd do well to avoid walking the streets for too long. Surely he'd be able to hail a cab sooner or later. Boys Town was usually congested with them.

Irritation flared as he continued to walk. Despite his hesitance to return home; he wanted his bed. Carl's snoring and Liam's night terrors be damned. Though if he was being honest, collapsing on the sofa also had a certain appeal.

He rounded a corner and was relieved to see a rank of city cabs at the far end of the street. He resisted the urge to run towards them as it would most likely result in him falling face first into the many puddles of vomit occupying the sidewalk. Not a pretty thought.

He was distantly hoping that Fiona wasn't up to unleash another tirade of reprimands when he passed the dark, pungent slit of an alleyway. He barely registered the slight movement from within until a hand seized the back of his shirt roughly and yanked him back into the dark.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening takes a horribly unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: this chapter contains attempted rape and a whole lot of gore. Proceed at your discretion.

The man was strong. A basic an observation as any, but it was the first thing Ian managed to glean as he was shoved face first against the wall. He felt his nose shatter upon impact; hot blood promptly gushing from both nostrils. He wondered if he should cry for help but deemed it futile. The man had dragged him far enough into the alley way to be invisible to passers by.

Hot puffs of breath fanned across the nape of Ian's neck, the bar of an arm pressed tight against the small of his back. Ian could taste bile. The sharp pulses of pain in his nose were sickening.

Ian pressed his lips tight together as the man pressed him flat against the wall; hand sliding up to fist in Ian's hair. Ian felt the guy rummaging around behind him and then the cool edge of a knife pressed against the side of his throat. Ian went cold; stomach dropping.

The man leant his chin on Ian's shoulder and spoke directly into his ear, “You gonna be good for me, hm? You gonna do what I say?”

Ian nodded instinctively but didn't attempt to speak. He wasn't sure if he could.

The man laughed, “Good boy.”

Ian gasped as he was yanked backwards by the hair; the alley spinning as he was thrown on his back. The rough, uneven floor tore through his shirt; shards of glass scraping his skin. He panted, entire body throbbing with varying degrees of pain.

The man stooped over him, the dull lights cast from nearby buildings illuminating the sharp features of his face. He reminded Ian forcefully of a rat; a thought that was short lived as the man moved to straddle Ian's hips, resting the tip of the knife just below Ian's collarbone. Ian knew better than to struggle and simply lay still; eyes fixed on the man’s face.

The man smiled, “So, we’re gonna have some fun.”

Ian's heart stuttered as the man leant forward; his lips inches from Ian's

“Gonna fuck that pretty mouth,” he said, sliding his hand up to cup Ian's jaw “And you're gonna swallow what I give you to swallow.”

Ian did struggle then. He twisted beneath the man, trying to use his legs as leverage to buck up. The man simply put a hand on his chest and held him down, thighs tightening on either side of Ian's hips.

A sharp nick to Ian's collarbone with the tip of the knife was enough to make him stop; sputtering and gasping for breath. He could feel a thin trickle of blood sliding down his chest.

The man tutted, “Squirmy little thing. You’re gonna feel so good writhing on my dick.”

Ian’s fists clenched, nails digging into his palms, pulse beating in his ears, “You put anything in my mouth, you're gonna lose it.”

The man pressed the blade harder against Ian's collarbone. Ian bit hard on his lower lip to counteract the nauseating pain; not quite able to choke back a whine.

The man leant forward once more; licking below Ian's ear before whispering into it, “You could beg you know.”

Ian tried to jerk his head away but was held firm by the hand gripping his jaw.

“Beg me to let you go,” the man elaborated, “I might even listen.”

“Fuck you,” Ian gasped, “I don't beg.”

“Hm,” the man pressed the point of his tongue against the shell of Ian's ear, “Pity.”

He leant back on his knees once more and dragged the knife lightly down Ian's torso. Ian's chest rose and fell rapidly; deafened by the roar of his own blood. He almost gagged as the man's hand went down to his own fly and slid the zipper down.

“Look at you,” he murmured, slipping a hand inside his jeans, “Gonna fuck that mouth so hard. Gonna tear you in two.”

Ian surprised himself then. Perhaps the horrific reality of the situation finally permeated his initial shock. Adrenaline rushed through him; pulses of energy beating in tandem with his heart, propelling him to fight back. Anger and fear interlocked, pushing him upwards and forcing the man back. Ian rolled to the right and scrambled to his feet before the man could collect himself. He took off at an unsteady run, eyes trained on the sliver of light at the end of the alley.

Ian had barely got two metres before he was caught around the middle and tackled to the ground. He struggled; squirming and writhing, arms flailing but unable to land a solid punch. He tried bucking against the man; hips thrusting upwards, trying to unseat him.

Ian saw the knife before he felt it; the blade reflecting the yellow glow of the distant streetlight as it came down. Ian convulsed as it tore through his stomach; the cut deep enough to allow the lurid coils of intestine to push against the split flesh and muscle.  
Blood surged up his throat and trickled from the corners of his mouth; gallons of the stuff spurting from the gaping chasm across his torso.

Ian released his grip on the man, watching as his arm flopped to the ground. He heard a garbled voice somewhere above him; distant, resonant. He tried to turn his head; registering a pair of scuffed shoes in the periphery of his vision. He felt a inexplicable degree of sick comfort knowing that the man hadn't left. Despite everything; he didn't want to die alone.

There was a sudden gust of wind through the alleyway; blowing cool air over his exposed innards. It was with some lunacy that he began smiling at the fact that no one else would ever know what that felt like. To feel your insides chilled by the wind.

Someone yelped; the pathetic sound sliding into a sort of choked scream. Something hot and wet sprayed across his cheek. He couldn't move his arm to see what it was; the only view he had was of the streaks of green painting the alley wall. And in all honesty, he didn't care.

Sometime later, silence descended. Something dripped steadily nearby but it seemed to come from a long way away. Everything felt relative; dreamlike. Even his shallow breaths seemed to belong to someone else.

_I'm dying._

It was the only thing that felt real. The blood seeping from the wound had slowed and thrum of his heart was faint. The inevitability of the whole thing felt simultaneously depressing and calming. He closed his eyes and welcomed it.

“Look at me.”

Ian jolted, his eyes opening instinctively. A pair of knees sheathed in bloody grey jeans came into view. Cool hands slid under his armpits and pulled him gently upright; guiding him to lie with his head cushioned on a pair of strong thighs. Ian was faintly surprised how little the movements hurt. In fact, his whole body was devoid of feeling.

The vampire's fangs were extended; stark white against his lower lip and there was blood smeared across his mouth and chin.

He regarded Ian calmly, “You're dying.”

If he had been able to, Ian would have rolled his eyes. Talk about stating the obvious. Instead, Ian simply blinked in acknowledgment.

“You've lost a lot of blood. Too much for me to heal you,” he stated placidly, “But I think it's fair to say you won't object to me saving your life.”

Ian blinked again. He didn't know whether the vampire would take that as confirmation or denial. In truth, he didn't particularly care. The vampire could call the shots.

The vampire reacted pretty quickly. He bought his own wrist up to his mouth and bit down hard. Blood dripped down his arm and onto Ian's face; hot and wet.

“Drink it,” the vampire said, holding his wrist to Ian's mouth.

Ian tried to stick out his tongue on command and managed. The vampire squeezed around the vein to encourage the blood flow. Ian couldn't really register a specific taste; he simply continued to suck.

After a moment, it started to feel strangely good and Ian found himself wanting more. He lifted his arm and clamped the vampire's wrist to his mouth. His entire body felt electrified; altered somehow. With every swallow, the feeling built; pulsing through him, changing him. Lights began to bloom behind his eyes; blinding him. All he could do was drink. It was the only thing that mattered.

After a while, Ian felt the vampire gently extricate his arm and place his hand on Ian's chest. He rocked Ian gently.

“Sleep,” he murmured, “Just go to sleep.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian morosely reflects on the past five months.

_**Five months later.**  
_

 Mainstreaming wasn't for Ian. That much was obvious. It was monotonous, restrictive and borderline degrading. He was a vampire, for Christ sake; since when was migrating into the mundanities of public life a prerequisite for vampiric development?

It wasn't as if he was ungrateful, though. His transition had been relatively smooth; his education adequate. He had a roof over his head and company so in theory, he wasn't in a position to complain. So he didn't. His dissatisfaction was entirely internalised, which probably wasn't healthy. But what could he say without sounding like an absolute cunt?

Lucia and Mandy had been more than accommodating when his maker had fucked off. That had been depressing. Ian had been out of the ground for the best part of five minutes before being hauled to the Milkovich house and deposited there. They had assured him that Mickey had a habit of starting things that he wasn't prepared to finish; that Ian shouldn't take it personally. So, all Ian had gleaned in that respect was that his maker was an impulsive piece of shit with complete disregard for anything concerning responsibility. Nice.

And that was where the concept of mainstreaming reared it’s ugly head. Lucia and Mandy considered themselves perfectly normal, law abiding citizens and Ian would have to adapt to that lifestyle by association. He had quickly become restless. He sought stimulation; freedom. Even as a human, he had lived his life on the edge; never conforming to or heeding civilian life. He was Southside, born and fucking raised.

Lucia acknowledged this and assured him that with the proper care and tuition, he would learn to acclimatise; Southside vamp or not. She recanted her own past experiences; telling him of her two thousand years on the planet and the violence of her formative years. She had been ruthless, cold and remorseless with no respect for human life. She was a vampire; they were food. This mentality had remained constant throughout her first thousand years before fully appreciating what she had become. She became calmer; more reflective. Human life was no longer trivialised and became something to be appreciated. Ian supposed that two thousand years could do that to a person. Change was inevitable.

So, he'd been assured that he would soon become a upstanding citizen; subsisting on a diet of Tru Blood and wallowing in misery. He needed to get out; needed to feed on something that didn't taste like liquidised shit. How the fuck could he go on trying to politely engage with humans whilst resisting the urge to tear their throats out? It was beyond ridiculous.

And why had his maker left him? If he was the nomadic hard ass his own maker and sister made him out to be; why the fuck hadn't he taken Ian with him? Surely by turning him, Mickey had recognised some semblance of potential? He wasn't depicted as the kind of guy who went around saving people like some kind of vampiric superhero; so why the fuck had Ian been deemed to be worth saving? Jesus Christ; Mickey had killed for him. Surely that counted for something. Ian couldn't have meant nothing to him.

This train of thought plagued him nightly, such was the current situation. Lucia and Mandy had fucked off for the night and apparently he wasn't trustworthy enough to venture out by himself so he had nothing to do but sit at the kitchen table and seethe. He glared at the bottle of O negative Tru Blood in front of him and shoved it to the side. Perhaps a hunger strike would be enough to testify his hatred for the stuff and persuade Lucia to relent. That or feign an eating disorder. Neither sounded particularly convincing, even in his head.

Fuck, he just wanted to feed properly. Was that too much to ask? He was sure the five months of careful guidance was enough to ensure he didn't kill anyone. Plus the AVL were coming down hard on rogue vampires and he wasn't moronic enough to risk facing the Magister. It was one of the first things Lucia had vehemently drilled home. He wasn't to fuck with the League.

All this considered, surely his sense of self preservation was enough to prevent him going full Dracula on the innocent citizens of Chicago.

Ian gazed longingly at the front door; wondering what reception he'd meet if he went AWOL. Certainly not a loving one. Perhaps he’d be given the boot and left to his own devices. That wouldn't be so bad; at least he'd be free. Then again, he knew Lucia would rather meet the sun than let a baby vampire run loose. As sheriff of Chicago area one, whatever the fuck that meant, she had an image to maintain. The likely result would be a relentless scolding and a spell in the basement for a few days.

In all honesty, he wasn't quite sure what was keeping him there. As much as Lucia had taken him under her wing, there really wasn't anything concrete anchoring him. In theory, he could go whenever and wherever he wanted. So what was the deal? What was compromising his resolve?

Of course he knew. The prospect of being reunited with his piece of shit maker was his anchor. Lucia had assured him that Mickey would be back eventually; most likely when he needed something. However, there was no accounting for predictability. Mickey was notoriously unpredictable. He seemed to revel in people sweating about his whereabouts. The prick.

Ian shifted in his seat as his stomach clenched. Fuck, he was hungry. He needed to feed or risk collapsing in a blood deprived heap. He really didn't do enough to argue his case; it always seemed futile as Lucia was so adamant that he be whipped into submission and know his place. But as he sat gazing at the pale blue branches of his own veins, defiance was quickly overshadowing subordination. He’d know it was only a matter of time before he caved; so why not speed the process up a bit?

Ian stood; resolution made. It was as if he was seeing clearly for the first time in weeks. Fuck Lucia and her rules. Fuck Tru Blood. Fuck mainstreaming. Fuck the AVL.  
He repeated the mantra as he crossed the room and pulled his jacket down from the peg. He was doing this. He was finally doing this. He was taking back control.

He took one last fleeting look at the living room before yanking open the front door and stepping out into the cool night air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucia - a two thousand year old vampire, sheriff of Chicago Area One and maker of Mandy and Mickey Milkovich.
> 
> Mandy Milkovich - turned in 1899 by Lucia, who she has been in a romantic relationship with since (bc bisexual Mandy is my heart and soul.)
> 
> Mainstreaming - the intergration of vampires into society. 
> 
> AVL - American Vampire League.
> 
> Magister - dictates law and order in the vampire community.
> 
> Tru Blood (for those of you who haven't seen the show) - a synthetic drink vampires can drink as opposed to blood.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's control wavers. To say the very least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: contains a whole lot of gore.

The neighbourhood was shrouded in darkness; the familiar streets abandoned. Ian consulted his watch. One thirty. He idly wondered whether Fiona would be up. He hadn't seen her in five months; hadn't contacted her. She must've resigned herself to the idea that he'd done another runner; perhaps reconvened with his mother on another mania induced whim.

It’d be easier for everyone if he just stayed away; allow them to move on from the indefinite disappearance of their half brother. He'd always been the black sheep after all. The one who'd put them through hell. The manic depressive faggot who came and went whenever he felt like it. The clone of their mother. The constant reminder that they were all irrelevant; their supposedly unconditional importance overshadowed by drug addiction and mental illness. He grimaced; trying and failing to push the thought aside.

Despite his numerous protestations to the contrary, he was Monica. In and out of people's lives, leaving carnage in his wake. He was a leech; bleeding his family dry time and time again. He was sure they could could move forward without him with relative ease. What had he really done to contribute in the long run? His disease had ripped the family apart. He’d attacked Lip, nearly bashed Debbie’s brain in with a baseball bat, beaten Frank to a bloody pulp, stolen a fuck ton of suitcases from O’Hare, participated in a porno along with a myriad of other crazy shit. He’d even taken Liam and hauled him away to Indiana in a stolen car, for fuck’s sake. Why the fuck would they miss him?

Then again, he had contributed. Before his illness; he did everything he could to support his family. Even if it meant breaking the law. Which, to be honest, it often did. They had meant the world to him. They still did, in spite of everything.

The roar of a passing car jerked him from his familial contemplations and it was with a start that Ian realised that the quiet suburb had given way to a chaotic metropolis of shitty bars, burnt out shops and strip clubs some time ago. He hadn't even registered where he was walking; barely recognised the place until he clocked a very familiar bar. He smiled.

The Alibi Room hadn't changed much; save from the scaffolding fortifying the front of the building. He could just make out the scuffed red door amongst the metal beams and planks. Shadows passed backwards and forwards behind the tacky stained glass windows; muffled laughter issuing beyond them.

Ian stared at the place wistfully. It wouldn't be so bad just to go inside, would it? For old times sake? He came out to feed and it was a given that at least one of the patrons would be willing to indulge him. He wasn't about to go rogue and slaughter the entire bar. He had this.

He crossed the street; mindful of the fact that Kev and V may well inform Fiona of his unexpected reappearance. Luckily, he'd be gone long before she had time to assemble a meet and greet. He'd be in and out. It wouldn't take long to find an enthusiastic blood donor. He'd picked up guys in the Alibi with relative ease in the past.  
The door creaked as he eased it open. Kev still hadn't deigned to oil the hinges or in fact change anything about the place. It was as obstinately dim as ever it was; the gloom heightened by the thick haze of cigarette smoke.

Yet behind the overpowering smell of nicotine and cheap booze, the air was thick with pheromones, sweat and skin sheathed blood; beating around bodies in tandem with their racing hearts. Ian almost whimpered.

He had known hunger but never like this. It was assiduous; igniting his synapses and pulsating through his entire, trembling body. He felt his fangs extending and quickly willed them to stay put. He was hesitant enough regarding the consequent reunion with Kev and V. He didn't need his fucking teeth testifying just how much he'd changed.

Kev was chatting amicably with one of the patrons; laughing every now and then. Ian approached cautiously, bracing himself for the inevitable. He leant against the bar to Kev’s left and drummed his fingers lightly against the polished surface. He hoped the feigned nonchalance was enough to convince both Kev and himself that he was still Ian Gallagher. Still morally sound. Still in control. It took Kev a few moments to register him and when he did, he gasped so dramatically that a few people raised their heads to ogle at him.

Ian sighed, hating himself for the wave of hunger Kev's direct attention had provoked. Fuck. Why wasn't he leaving? Why the fuck had he come here?

“Hi, Kev," he heard himself say.

 _Shit_.

“Holy shit!” Kev stuttered, “Ian!”

Ian offered a half smile, loathing himself for it, “Good to see you.”

_It fucking would have been if I wasn't so hungry._

Kev’s shock quickly dissipated into something akin to joy as his face split into an honest to God beam, “How've you been, man? Haven't seen you in months.”

Ian swallowed, struggling to consign words to thought. Kev’s pulsing arteries were so freaking tormenting. However he set his jaw, clenched his fists and willed himself to excavate a response.

"Took a road trip," he managed, “Figured I needed some time to myself.”

Kev chuckled, “Don't blame you. Though you could’ve called or some shit. Fiona was out of her mind.”

“Yeah?” guilt settled like lead in his stomach, yet another addition to an already shitty, overwhelming situation, “I guess I just wasn't thinking. A lot went down.”

“Like?” Kev pushed, “Guy trouble?”

“Fuck no,” Ian shook his head vehemently, wondering how the hell Kev could could construe his rigid demeanour and gritted teeth as a response to something so trivial, “Couldn't give a fuck about that shit.”

“So?” Kev leant forward expectantly, forcing Ian to shuffle back slightly, “You gonna leave me hanging or…?”

But whatever succinct response Ian was about to offer was promptly impeded as his stomach suddenly contracted painfully. People pressed in on him from all sides; the smell of blood overwhelming. Something must have shown on his face as Kev’s brow furrowed with concern.

“You ok, Ian?” he asked, “You need a drink?”

"No,” Ian wondered how he hadn't doubled over yet. He couldn't last much longer. His appetency was engulfing his control. It was a chord pulled too tight and the severance was inevitable. He had to succumb to it.

“I need, fuck, I need food," he moaned, fingernails scraping against the polished wood of the bar top, "So fucking hungry."

Kev brightened almost instantly, “Why didn't you say? What’ll you have? We do Chicken Parmesan now.”

And that was it. Kev's innocence, his stupidity broke through whatever meagre barriers Ian had left. He almost snarled; fangs aching to extend and sink into the nearest throat. He needed blood. Fuck, he needed it so badly. He didn't even care about the consequences; wondered why he'd even worried about them before hand. He was a vampire. They were food.

“No, you fucking idiot,” Ian heard himself spit, “I need to fucking feed.”

Before he could even assess Kev’s reaction; all hell broke loose. He was distantly aware of someone screaming; of his fangs digging into his bottom lip. His fingers tangled themselves in long hair and pulled, baring a terrified, makeup caked face and the expanse of a throat.

He yanked her to the floor and pulled her against his chest. He could see the rhythmic jump of her pulse; blood pushing through it as her heart rate skyrocketed. She whimpered something; he didn't care what. Caring was a foreign concept. What even was it? What was empathy? Or remorse? Or guilt? Whatever the hell they were, they had no place in Ian's mind. Not now.

He tightened his grip on the woman's hair, pulling her head back even further. She scrabbled desperately at his hands; tried to twist away. Ian simply held her, swinging his leg over both of hers. Someone yelled; something even collided with his back. He didn’t flinch; didn't do anything but lower his head and press his nose to her throat. Her skin was hot, flushed and glistening with a sheen of sweat; her vein pushing softly against the surface, raised and throbbing with life. And that was when something broke in Ian.

Floodgates crumbling and releasing a roiling surge of savagery; Ian sunk his teeth into the woman's jugular and pulled. A huge chunk of flesh came away; lodging in his mouth and releasing a torrent of hot blood down his throat. He couldn't even distinguish a specific taste; after all, life wasn't exactly palatable. It was so much more.

Fuelled by five months of near starvation, of imprisonment and incessant degradation; Ian was merciless. Ignorant of the chaos around him, he simply clamped his mouth to the now gaping wound in the woman's throat and sucked with the avidity he had been denied. Cascades of blood almost choked him; dribbling in rivulets down his chin and neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat. The woman twitched in his grip; hands stilling and falling limply beside her.

And still he drank. Drank until his jaw ached; until his abdomen swelled and pushed against his jeans. He craved more. He needed more.

Once she had no more blood left to offer him; he pulled away slowly with a low groan and got to his feet. He probed the recesses of his mouth with his tongue; proceeding to slide it across his lips to capture the dregs. If he could, he'd be gasping. The whole thing was perverse, surreal and so, so good.

“Ian…”

He twisted around with a snarl; all too ready to decimate the ballsy motherfucker who dared shit on his afterglow. However, this attempt at further intimidation was nipped in the bud pretty quickly.

Lucia was standing in the threshold of the Alibi; regarding him steadily. Despite the carnage before her, she seemed curiously collected. Her eyes roamed the bar, barely acknowledging the corpse at Ian's feet and resting on Kev, who was standing paralysed against the back wall.

“Are you hurt?” she asked calmly.

Wordlessly, Kev shook his head; eyes wide with terror. Lucia nodded.

“Good. Sit,” she gestured to a nearby table, “We need to talk.”

Kev sat almost obediently; resting his elbows on the table and covering his face with his hands. His shoulders began to shake.

It was strange; seeing that level of distress and feeling nothing. Kev was a friend after all. Ian kept his eyes firmly trained on the shimmering shards of glass scattered across the floor. Lucia exhaled needlessly and turned to him. If looks could kill, Ian would have been reduced to a bloody smear on the laminate. He suppressed a shudder.

“Go home,” she instructed, coldly, “And don't try and run. I'll find you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not particularly happy about the abrupt ending but I figured I'd have to wrap it up sooner rather than later. It was getting ramble-y.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically a fill in chapter. Ian and Mandy discuss the night's unpleasant turn of events.

The car ride home was quiet. Mandy kept glancing at him; opening her mouth to speak and shutting it. Ian drummed his fingers against his legs and fidgeted restlessly. Feeding seemed to have instilled in him some kind of euphoric charge of energy; something he hadn't experienced since his last manic phase. Fuck, he'd missed it.

“Feels good up there, huh?” Mandy said finally.

Her voice was relatively calm despite her previous hesitance to engage him. Ian regarded her for a moment; watching the corner of her pretty mouth quirk up in a small smile. 

“Should’ve know you wouldn't take to mainstreaming,” she continued, “I mean, Mick’s your maker; instincts kind of overrule ethics, right?”

Ian shrugged, “I guess? Wasn't expecting to freak out like I did. Things just kind of - ”

“I know,” Mandy interrupted, “I've seen it with Mick. Fuck, I've been there myself, man. We're vampires, right? Losing control is kind of in the job description.”

Ian mulled it over. It was one thing allowing himself to slaughter a random woman in the Alibi but to have it reasonably justified? He didn't know whether to feel relieved or disconcerted. 

Mandy laughed at his contemplative silence, “Look, what you did was no worse than any other vamp, ok? Lucia knows that. You know what how she started out. Hell, I don't even know how many people she's drained over the years. Don't think she does either. You lose count after a while.”

“Yeah, well, she didn't look that understanding,” Ian counteracted sullenly, “Bitch looked like she wanted to tear me in two.”

“Sure,” Mandy said with a shrug, “She's pissed. But only because she's been clean for so long. Seeing that level of mayhem makes her kind of antsy. Reminds her of the past I guess. Still, she knew what she was getting into when she took you in. She'll get off her high horse soon enough.”

“Oh yeah?” Ian said sceptically, diverting his attention back to the street, “You sure about that?”

Mandy grinned, “Yep. Just needs her pussy licked and she’ll be golden.”

Ian grimaced, “Thanks for that.”

“Hey,” Mandy reached over and pinched his thigh, “Just trying to get you off the hook, baby cakes.”

“I can hardly contain my gratitude,” Ian retorted sarcastically, “It won't do shit and you know it.”

“Trust me,” Mandy assured him, “I have my ways.”

Ian rolled his eyes and slumped back in his seat. Lucia was never going to let this shit go. He'd be silvered to the floor of the basement. That or have his fangs torn out with pliers. One of the two. 

As they drew up outside the Milkovich house, Mandy consulted her watch. 

"Two hours until dawn,” she said absently before turning to Ian. She frowned, “You need a shower. Get all that schmutz off your face.”

Ian nodded. Coagulating blood had fused his clothes to his skin; the folds of material stiff. His face felt somewhat scaly and his lips were cracked and dry; stinging where his fangs had dug into them. Blood had even etched itself into the whirls and lines of his palms like some perverse art piece. Mandy smirked as she watched him survey himself critically.

“Yeah, you're a mess,” she said genially, “Come on, Dracula. You're stinking up my car.”

Ian rolled his eyes but nevertheless heaved himself out of the car and made his way slowly up the creaking stairs to the front door. 

“Sleep tight, angel face,” Mandy called as she started up the car. Ian offered a noncommittal wave in response before shouldering the door open and stepping inside.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy and Ian discuss the Milkoviches dark past. Coincidental drama unfolds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: contains omissions of sexual abuse and violence. Proceed at your discretion.

After several nights of Lucia steadily avoiding him; Ian found himself sprawled across the couch with his legs resting across Mandy's thighs. She was flicking idly through TV stations; clicking her tongue and sighing at the almost constant stream of shopping channels interspersed with flashes of tits and gyrating hips. Nighttime television in a nutshell; buy shit you don't need or jerk off to fake tits and bad dye jobs.

"I swear, funerals are more interesting than this shit,” Mandy grumbled, stabbing the remote buttons aggressively “What the fuck happened to horror movies? Or crime documentaries?”

“Decommissioned in favour of sex and financial gain,” Ian said, “Human nature overrules entertainment right? Money, sex; much more interesting than Saw or Crimes That Shook America.”

Mandy frowned, tossing the remote to the side, “Humans are confusing, man.”

“Not as confusing as vamps,” Ian countered, “Five months ago, my life was pretty fucking simple.”

“I mean,” Mandy kept her eyes trained on the half naked woman prancing around the screen; tossing her blonde hair and flashing a set of artificially whitened teeth, “They’re indecisive about the wrong things. Instead of focusing on, I don't know, art or culture or some shit, they spend their time weighing up the pros and cons of either gawking at pussy or buying a fucking toaster for twenty dollars. Can't understand that.”

“Try empathy then,” Ian urged, “You must remember what it was like? Being human?”

Mandy shrugged, “It was the eighteen nineties and things were a lot simpler. The most we dithered over was what booze would make our dad less likely to beat the shit out of us.”

Ian stared at her, thrown off guard by her frankness. He had often pondered about Mandy’s past. She was usually guarded; changing the subject whenever the matter was broached. Lucia had simply stated that it had been unpleasant. More so for Mickey than Mandy; although the psychological scars were more prevalent in the latter. Ian had never asked Mandy to elaborate. Sometimes, things were better left unearthed. Buried in the furthest corners of the mind to fester there and eventually diminish into something relatively bearable. A watered down version of the truth.

However, judging by Mandy's brusqueness, she was striving for indifference. By feigning impartiality, she was more likely to indulge Ian's curiosity. He should know. He'd been in the same position more than once.

“What happened, Mandy?” he asked softly, “To you and Mickey. What happened?”

Mandy shuffled slightly, tracing circles across Ian's calf with her forefinger, “You want to know?”

Ian nodded, “Yeah, Mands. I do.”

She regarded him for a moment, gnawing at her lower lip, “Don’t really know where to start.”

“From the beginning,” Ian suggested, “Where were you born?”

Mandy ducked her head and sucked in a breath, “In a bum fuck town in the Ukraine called Odessa.”

“Was Mandy your birth name?” Ian pressed, “Doesn't sound Ukrainian.”

Mandy offered him a small smile, “It isn't. I just kind of acquired it over the years. Was sick of Lucia calling me ‘Manechka’. Sounds fucking medieval.”

“It's pretty,” Ian offered politely.

Mandy snorted, “The fuck it is. Honestly, our birth names were the fucking worst.”

“Hit me.”

“Fuck,” Mandy sighed, “Fine. Dad’s name was Tosya. Brothers were Mikhailo, Igor, Cheslav, Jasha and Tolya.”

Ian smirked, “Mikhailo?”

Mandy flicked his shin, “Stick to Mickey. I’m serious. For his benefit as well as yours.”

Ian frowned, "His benefit?”

“Reminds him of the past, ok? He was on the receiving end of a lot of messed up shit. Lucia told you that his turning was worse than mine, right?” Mandy's eyes were solemn, “It was. A whole lot worse.”

She paused; apparently collecting herself before ploughing on, “Our dad was a drinker. I've made that clear. He…” Mandy closed her eyes, “He used to mistake me for our mom. I've lost count of how many times he did it and I became kind of numb after a while. He'd never remember and I was too chicken shit to say anything to anyone so I kept quiet. Pretended it wasn't happening until it did. Anyway, one night he came home and he, well, you know, and I guess he was kind of…loud. Mickey heard and came running and…”

Mandy paused, grip tightening on Ian's shin. A droplet of red was seeping from the corner of her eye.

“It was bad, ok? My dad, he…” blood was dripping steadily from her eyes now; rivulets stark against her skin, “He beat him at first. Which was something we were used to, you know? He'd beat on us all the time for stupid shit; kept us in line or whatever. But this time, well, you could tell it was different. Dad broke Mick’s nose and just kept going. Cracked his skull, fractured his eye socket, dislocated his jaw and just wouldn't let up. I tried...I fucking tried to help. Tried to make him stop and couldn't do shit. He wouldn't listen. Mick was dying, I didn't know what to do. I screamed for help, screamed until it hurt. But my brothers were out and there was no one around for fucking miles; what the fuck could I do?”

Ian sat up then, his stomach churning, “Mandy…”

“No…” Mandy pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, “I'm fine. You need to know this shit and Mick’s not around to tell you. So just listen, yeah?”

Ian jerked his head in a nod and remained silent; unsure whether or not he wanted to hear the rest but recognising the futility of voicing the fact.

“Then there was this crack,” Mandy continued, shuddering, “It was fucking sickening, man, and Mickey just kind of caved in on himself. He couldn't speak, couldn't do anything. His back was kind of dented where his spine had snapped. Probably caused internal bleeding or some shit because blood just came spewing out of his mouth. And that was when it stopped. I don't really remember how Lucia killed Tosya; I was too fucking busy tending to my brother and I didn't really fucking care. All I remember is being pushed to one side and Lucia bending over Mickey and telling me that he was too far gone for her to heal him. I didn't know what the fuck she was talking about, of course, but when she said she could save him I just let her get on with it. I needed my brother to pull through. Needed him to stay with me. Just needed him in general. And that need clouds your judgement. I watched Lucia feed him her blood, watched her take him to ground. Watched him change. It wasn't the same but he was there. Not exactly alive but close enough. I'll always adore Lucia for that. Think that's what sealed the deal. Well, it fucking would, wouldn't it? Goes without saying,” Mandy chuckled, “Things just kind of escalated between us, you know? I already worshipped the fucking ground she walked on for the shit she pulled with Mick; it didn't take me fucking long to fall head over fucking heels. So, she turned me a year later. Things were fucked up for a while; me and Mick were difficult to control. Guess it was in our nature anyway but being a vampire just kind of heightens everything. You should know that. Suffice it to say, I eventually changed. I changed a lot. I kept myself in check, only fed when I needed to. Mick…didn't. It's been over a hundred years and he's still the same. Hence why he's not here. He's reckless, impulsive and violent as hell. He doesn't give a shit about human life and considers the whole coming out of the coffin thing an invitation to just publicly murder people. He’s faced the Magister before. Had his fangs pulled out so he couldn't feed. Bit counterproductive, given the fact that he just went on a bitch of a frenzy when they grew back. But as I say, human life means shit to him. So, what he pulled with you was a surprise to say the fucking least. He's never been a maker; never wanted to be. He doesn't give a enough of a fuck. But you…I don't know. He must've seen something in you. He'll deny it, of course. Try to act like a hard ass. But trust me. You're something to him. And that's why he'll be back.”

The finality was unnerving. The story in itself was horrific but to have himself considered a vital addition was even more so. Ian swallowed.

“Hey,” Mandy reached over and cupped his cheek gently, “You needed to know, ok? If anything, it'll help you understand why Mick is the way he is. Why he's not here. Because all things considered, he has a lot to run from. Doesn't excuse it; just makes it easier to get your head round and realise you didn't push him away or whatever.”

Ian nodded slowly, “You've been through a lot,” he cringed at the unintentional trivialisation, “I mean, more than someone should experience in a lifetime. In two lifetimes.”

Mandy smiled, “You're sweet, Ian. I'm guessing you always were.”

“Not always,” Ian countered grimly, “I was…difficult. To say the least.”

"I know,” Mandy said quietly, “Ian Gallagher. Bipolar one with psychotic tendencies. Hospitalised for assaulting your father and endangering your infant brother.”

Ian stared at her. It was like a hunk of lead had been deposited in his stomach. He hadn't heard those words, that diagnosis in four years. How the fuck…

Mandy ran a hand through his hair, “We have a friend, Svetlana. She's a kind of administrator I guess. She did some research regarding your background when Mick bought you here.”

Ian couldn't help but feel a little violated. The fact that this Svetlana or whoever the fuck, had been doing some pretty deep delving into his past didn't sit particularly well with him. Well. He supposed that was a fairly corporate reaction.

“Ian,” Mandy’s soft voice jerked him from his reverie, “She has a baby. She lives here most of the time. We have to be careful, you know? Hence why you've never met her.”

Ian bristled, “What, you think I'd hurt a baby?”

“Maybe not intentionally,” Mandy said, “But, yes. I think you definitely would. Svet herself had to be kept away from him after she was turned.”

“Wait,” Ian stared at her incredulously, “She's a vampire?”

“Svet?” Mandy smiled, “Yeah. Puerperal sepsis after Yev was born. I guess someone took a shine to her.”

“When the fuck was this?” Ian demanded, shell shocked.

“Ten months ago maybe?” Mandy shrugged, “I don't know exactly. But she calmed down pretty quickly. I guess motherhood does that. She's cool. You'll like her.”

Ian highly doubted that. Svetlana could be as accommodating as she wanted; Ian was not about to let the sleuthing slide. Nevertheless, he raised his shoulder in a shrug. He needed the conversation to be over.

“She's the only one Mickey listens to, you know.”

Ian raised his eyebrow at that, “Yeah?”

“Uh huh,” Mandy grinned, “Hence why we've sent her to track his nomadic ass down.”

“Wait, what?” Ian spluttered, “She's tracking Mickey?”

“Did you really think we'd let him ditch you?” Mandy chuckled, “Nah, Svet’ll find him. He usually goes to Shreveport.”

"Why Shreveport?”

“Because he's Eric's bitch,” Mandy shrugged, before grinning at Ian's blank expression, “Sheriff of Louisiana area five. Old school motherfucker. Been around a long time. I guess he and Mick are kind of business partners.”

“Kind of?” Ian pressed.

“V distribution,” Mandy clarified, “Eric supplies, Mick sells.”

“They distribute V?” Ian repeated, slightly appalled, “Since when was that a thing?”

Mandy shrugged indifferently, "There's a big market for it. Just gotta keep a low profile. The AVL’s got a hard on for V dispensation.”

“Not surprised,” Ian snorted, “Fucking weird, man.”

Mandy shook her head fondly, “You’ve got a lot to learn, baby boy.”

Ian rolled his eyes but neglected to counter the fact. In the grand scheme of things, he knew shit. Mandy seemed to register his despondency and wound her arm around his shoulders.

“You're young, ok?” she said soothingly, “You'll get to grips with things. Just takes a while. Believe me, there's things I still don't understand.”

“Yeah?” Ian mumbled.

“Cross my heart. Christ, even Mick knows jack. He never bothered to educate himself. Thinks he's still living the eighteen hundreds,” Mandy paused, lacing her fingers between Ian's, “You're a lot like him, you know.”

Ian scoffed, “What, because I know jack shit?”

“No,” she squeezed his hand, “The pair of you just fit.”

"I don't know him,” Ian dismissed, “And he sure as shit doesn't seem to care about me.”

“Look,” Mandy said, “I know my brother, ok? What he did spooked him. That's obvious. He's realised that someone actually mattered enough for him to save them and that is a big fucking pill for him to swallow. He's a pussy where his feelings are concerned.”

“Yeah, well,” Ian grumbled, “Needs to tell me that himself.”

Mandy laughed, “You'll be waiting a long fucking time.”

Ian smiled in acknowledgement and let his head rest on her shoulder, “Maybe. Got all the time in the world, right?”

“Right,” Mandy murmured and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

They sat there in silence for a while; fingers interlinked, eyes fixed on the TV with their minds firmly elsewhere. Ian thoughts strayed inevitably to Mickey; wondering whether he'd ever thought about him at all or whether he'd obstinately pushed Ian to the back of his mind. Clearly Ian had got under his skin; a constant reminder of his own consideration, of his perceived heroism. An itch he couldn't scratch.

“I can hear you thinking,” Mandy murmured, gently trailing her nail down his forearm, “What’s on your mind?”

Ian sighed and pressed his lips softly to her shoulder, “Not important.”

“I know it's a lot to take in, baby,” she squeezed him, “You're doing so well.”

“I'm a mess,” Ian said softly.

“As are all of us. We're vampires. It's fucked up in its-”

Mandy's cell buzzed; cutting her off mid-sentence. Mumbling apologetically, she reached over and retrieved her phone from the coffee table; regarding it warily before answering.

“Yeah?”

Ian watched Mandy cautiously, stomach contracting as her jaw dropped.

“You have? Where?” she sounded almost frantic, "He did fucking WHAT?!"

Ian shifted uneasily; surely this wasn't what he thought it was. They had been discussing it just minutes before. It would be too coincidental.

"No that's not enough for Lucia to kick him to the curb. Wait, what the fuck did he just say?” Mandy demanded, “Fuck that, tell him to get his ass back. He's got five months to make up for.”

There was a pause, “I don't give a shit what Eric says. The prick can fuck himself.”

Shit. This was really happening. If Ian could, he'd be hyperventilating. Instead, anxiety roiled and twisted in his stomach; his hands shaking in response.

“Jesus fucking Christ, silver him if you have to. Just get him in the fucking car.”

Mandy scowled and tapped her foot impatiently as the caller whined in her ear, “Was that so fucking difficult? Just get back here, ok? He's got a score he needs to settle.”

And with that, Mandy ended the call and tossed the phone carelessly to the side. Ian watched her as she buried her head in her hands and groaned into them. He wondered whether he should comfort her. He probably would have if he wasn't so wracked with fear himself.

The seconds ticked by, bleeding into what felt like hours. Mandy remained stationary; occasionally whining into her hands. Sometimes she'd curse; other times she was nonsensical.

“Son of a bitch,” he heard her growl, "You fucking idiot."

After several minutes of cursing and groaning, Mandy finally reemerged. Her face was curiously flushed, eyes overly bright. She jiggled her leg, seemed to calm herself before turning to Ian slowly. She avoided his gaze at first; picking idly at her nails. Ian opened his mouth to speak but was stalled as Mandy lifted her head and met his eyes. She wet her lips, eyes wide, almost apologetic as she softly uttered the inexorable.

“Svet found Mickey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandy and Mickey's Ukrainian background is entirely invented (duh). As are the creative array of names.
> 
> Eric - a two thousand year old vampire portrayed by Alexander Skarsgård in the original series of True Blood.
> 
> Oh yeah, and vampires cry blood.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is on everyone's shit list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right ok, I was going to include Mickey himself in the chapter but it felt more reasonable to bring him back in the next chapter. I had a very specific idea about how he was going to be integrated into the story and it simply didn't feel right to include it in this chapter. I'm evil and I apologise. Am half way through writing the next chapter so expect him back really soon :)

“The fucking idiot was in Fort Wayne. Had to move some heavy gear,” Mandy groaned, “Didn't seem to fucking realise that the AVL have cracked down hard on all the cities in Indiana.”

Ian stared at his hands as Mandy paced. What the fuck was happening? He couldn't even find his voice to verbalise his distress. Which was odd in itself, given the fact that he'd wanted nothing more in the past five months than to meet his maker. Perhaps Mickey's apparent notoriety had shaken him more than he'd initially realised.

Mandy kicked at an empty bottle of Tru Blood aggressively, “He's a fucking moron. Could have had his ass hauled to the Magister. Again.”

“What happens if he's convicted twice?” Ian heard himself ask, “I mean, how does our judicial system even work?”

Mandy looked at him somewhat incredulously, “What judicial system? There's no fucking justice.”

“You didn't answer my question,” Ian pointed out, “What happens if Mickey is convicted twice?”

“I don't fucking know,” Mandy snapped, “Depends how boring the case is. The Magister tends to go a little easier on you if you keep him entertained. Worked in Mick’s favour last time.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh,” Mandy nodded, “It was a pretty standard case to be honest. Mick fed from a claimed human, attacked another vamp bla bla. But he's a good talker, I guess. Magister seemed to like him.”

Ian considered elucidating the evident corruption at play, but it seemed fairly pointless. What was the vampire community if not corrupt. They had no real justice system, as Mandy had said. They seemingly revelled in inflicting pain on their own kind as well as humans; utilising the makeshift laws as justification.

Mandy consulted her watch, “Nearly dawn,” she informed him absently, “Don’t particularly want to bleed over this bullshit.”

Ian nodded, remembering the slick slide of blood trickling from his ears and nose the last time he had tried to refrain from sleeping. Plus, the prospect of unconsciousness temporarily shielding him from the oncoming shit storm was pretty appealing.

"When d’you think they'll be back?” Ian asked as they descended the basement steps, “I mean, Fort Wayne is, what, three hours away?”

Mandy shrugged indifferently, “Fuck knows. Probably tomorrow night if Svet floors it.”

“You think she'll have to silver him?”

"Nah," Mandy replied, pulling her shirt over her head and tossing it haphazardly across the room, “She never needs to. As much as Mick’ll bitch and whine, he respects her too much to cause a real fuss.”

“At least he respects someone,” Ian muttered under his breath, shedding his pants and flopping gracelessly onto the bed.

“He might surprise you, Ian,” Mandy said as she climbed into her own bed, “I told you. You mean something to him. Accept it and in time, Mick will too.”

A expectant silence followed Mandy's declaration and Ian supposed he should contribute something. But the truth was, Ian wasn't prepared to trail after Micky like some bitch; waiting on bated breath for the acceptance that seemed unlikely to come.

He heard Mandy sigh before pulling the light chord, plunging the room into darkness.

“Love you,” she murmured.

Ian smiled, “Love you too, Mands.”

 

* * *

 

“Fort Wayne?”

“S’what I said.”

“For five months?”

“Seems so,” Mandy shrugged, “Pushing V for Eric.”

Lucia frowned, “Long way from Shreveport,” she stated softly.

Ian watched her as she circled the room slowly, deep in thought. He figured it'd probably be best not to donate his own thoughts to the proceedings. As far as he was aware, he was still on Lucia's shit list.

Mandy was perched on the arm of the sofa, “I guess Eric's more ambitious than we thought.”

Lucia regarded her contemplatively, “I've never known Eric to push in other territories. Not so much ambitious as reckless.”

“And Mick must have known the risk of selling in Indiana,” Mandy said, a slight edge to her voice, “Dealers there don't take kindly to trespassing.”

“True,” Lucia conceded, “But I dare say he loved the thrill. He's always been a junkie for that type of thing. One of his many short comings.”

“Who's running things in Fort Wayne at the minute, anyway?” Mandy asked, “Is it still Syre?”

“As far as I know. And from what I gather, he's a maker now.”

Mandy snorted, “Syre? No fucking way.”

Ian may as well have been part of the sofa. Not that he was complaining. It was easier to engross himself in his own thoughts and misgivings regarding Mickey's imminent return than crossing into conversational territory regarding who distributed where and who turned who. And so he continued to watch Lucia and Mandy whittle over the possible consequences of Mickey's evident fuck up.

“When did Svet last contact you?” Lucia asked, gesturing to the phone in Mandy's hand.

Mandy checked it, “An hour ago.”

“Did she say how long they'd be?”

“Two hours, give or take,” Mandy replied, “Mind you, Svet’s a fucking menace so I'm betting they'll be here in half an hour or so.”

Ian's stomach lurched. Half an hour wasn't nearly long enough and like fuck was he going to be part of the welcome committee. He was not about to be caught hankering after Mickey like some lost puppy.

He stood abruptly. Lucia and Mandy jumped as if they'd forgotten he was in the room.

"I'm er…” he started but the words lodged in his throat. Fuck explanations.

Turning on his heel, he made a beeline for the basement door.

“Ian-” Mandy's voice was cut short as the heavy door banged shut behind him.

_Shit shit shit._

He paced the room like a caged tiger, hands trembling. He wanted to scream, to run. Any desire to meet his maker had promptly diminished, converting into unadulterated terror.

This was the cunt who had left him high and dry, forcing him to indulge in the horrors of mainstreaming. The cunt who, despite Mandy's protestations to the contrary, couldn't give a flying fuck about Ian, dismissing him as something dispensable. The cunt who likened Ian to an unwanted baby; something to be tossed in the trash and forgotten about.

With a low groan, Ian sat down on the edge of the bed, head bowed, clawing at his own hair. Fuck Mickey Milkovich. Fuck the prospect of meeting him. What was there to expect? A loving reception? Apologies? Addressing their so called “bond”? Proclamations of undying fucking love?

The mere prospect of conversing with the prick was horrific. Better to just remain where he was and let the chips fall where they might where Lucia and Mandy were concerned. That bullshit had fuck all to do with him. They all just needed to stay the fuck away and let him sleep.

Ian fell back against the pillows and promptly curled in on himself; seeking comfort in his own body. He willed sleep to come; to transport him away from all of this. He just needed to be numb for a while. Needed to sink into the darkness of his unconscious mind; to perhaps lose himself in a dream. Needed the isolation. Needed to forget.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey surprises Ian in more ways than one.

Someone was pressed against Ian's back. He could feel their arm flung over his hip, knees bent to rest just under his ass. They shifted every now and then; alternating between pulling Ian against them and nudging him to lie flat against the wall. He pushed back a little, hand sliding down to rest on top of theirs.

“Like to spoon, huh Gallagher?”

Ian jumped at the familiar voice; extricating his hand as though burned, “What the fuck?”

Ian shoved Mickey back, wriggling forward as much as he could. But the grip on his hip tightened and he was abruptly pulled back. A hand slid to his stomach to secure him.

“Calm down,” Mickey said, “Christ, were you always this skittish?”

Ian contemplated shoving Mickey onto the floor and running the fuck away. His previous angst and fury had returned in full force; testified by the resultant click as his fangs extended.

“Get the fuck off me,” he hissed, shoving at Mickey's hand.

Mickey chuckled, “Is that any way to talk to your maker?”

Ian squirmed in Mickey's grip, snarling as his arms tightened around him, “I swear to fucking God if you don't let me go…”

“You'll do what?” Mickey whispered, mouth pressed against the back of Ian's neck, “What you gonna do to me, tough guy?”

"Gonna fucking..." Ian hissed and jerked as he felt the scrape of Mickey's fangs against his skin, “Gonna kill y-”

Ian shoved his fist in his mouth to stifle a scream as Mickey bit down hard on the back of his neck. He thrashed against him; pushing back, clawing at Mickey's hand, trying to free his legs from beneath the strong thigh slung across them.

"You gonna calm down for me, Gallagher?” Mickey said softly, “Gonna listen to what I have to say?”

“Fuck you,” Ian spat; his words losing conviction as they slid into a wail in response to Mickey's teeth pressing down against the throbbing wound, “You fucking cunt.”

“Quite the gentleman, aren't you?” Mickey taunted, “Now settle the fuck down and listen.”

Ian gave one less defiant squirm before stilling. He slumped miserably backwards and as a result, Mickey's hold on him slackened somewhat. Ian couldn't even bring himself to make use of the lapse in security.

“Don't expect an apology,” Mickey began brusquely, “You won't get one. It won't change anything.”

Ian said nothing. Mickey didn't seem to expect an retort.

“Don't expect an explanation either,” he continued, “I don't have one. I did what I did. Avoided responsibility for five months, left you up shit creek without a paddle blah blah blah. Lucia's given me enough shit about that already. Seems to think I could have done something to stop that little episode of yours a few days ago,” he paused in favour of a brief snigger, “For the record, I wouldn't have. If anything, I'd have helped you drain the bitch myself. You'd get so fucking riled. I'd like to see that one day. Well,” he chuckled again, “let’s be honest here. I will see that. I'll see it again and again and again.”

Ian instinctively opened his mouth to tell Mickey to go and fuck himself, but ultimately closed it again. As much as he wanted to deny the grim fact, he found himself unable to. Instead, he found the whole prospect pretty fucking alluring.

He mentally slapped himself; like fuck was he selling out for that prick. Instead, he kept it fucking schtum; obdurately refusing to indulge Mickey in his shitty ideas, his ludicrous suggestions, his ridiculous…

“You seem pretty confident,” the words forced themselves from him before he could stop them. He even sounded shamefully gentle. Shit.

Mickey shifted slightly behind him; his grip on Ian tightening once more. However, this time it felt vaguely affectionate. Almost like a hug.

“You gonna tell me I'm wrong?” he asked quietly, “You're not cut out for this conventional bullshit.”

“You don't know me,” Ian contradicted; the statement completely lacking the conviction he was striving for.

“I know enough,” Mickey assured him, “You’re interesting, Gallagher.”

Ian frowned, “Interesting? How so?”

“Hmm,” Mickey's quiet exhalation fanned across the nape of Ian's neck, “You've got a lot under your belt. Not gonna fucking psychoanalyse you, don't worry. But the shit you dealt with before, the feelings, instabilities or whatever, they all influence your thought processes and consequent actions as a vamp. They get heightened, right? Ergo, you need to channel them in a way that suits you. In your case, mainstreaming is a big fucking no no,” he flattened his hand against Ian's stomach and gently rubbed the taut skin with his thumb, “So fuck it. You don't need that run of the mill, Tru Blood sucking, human sympathising bullshit, ok?”

Ian bit at his lower lip; thrown yet again by the corporately nonchalant air that both Milkoviches employed when justifying his potential penchant for violence. Perversely, it was something that both calmed and reviled him. Though he had to admit, the revulsion was often overshadowed by a strange sense of exuberance.

“Why did you turn me?” Ian mumbled, surprising himself by pressing against Mickey slightly, “If humans mean jack, why did you bother?”

There was a pregnant pause, “Already told you. You're interesting.”

“You knew fuck all about me,” Ian snapped, “How could you determine how interesting I was from checking me out and turning me? I barely fucking spoke to you.”

“Didn't need to,” Mickey said matter of factly, “When you've been around for as long as I have, things rarely surprise you. But you did. I don't know how or why, but you did. I guess it fucked with my judgement.”

Ian swallowed, “So you regret it?”

“Did I say that?” Mickey sounded somewhat surprised, “I don't do this shit enough to regret it. Feels strange, sure. But regrettable? Nah.”

Ian remained unconvinced, “But-”

“Gallagher,” Mickey cut across him firmly, “Would I be clinging to you like a fucking octopus if I regretted turning you, huh?”

Ian shrugged. Perhaps he was simply grasping at straws here; trying desperately to convince himself that Mickey was a liar; that he was the cunt Ian had envisioned him as being. Paranoia and distrust was something Ian had always been bogged down with. He had always steeled himself for disappointment; for rejection. He wasn't pessimistic exactly; he was simply a realist depressed by the truth.

Mickey sighed, “I'm not gonna leave you again, ok? Whether you believe that or not is up to you, I can't change that. But you need me, Gallagher.”

Ian wriggled slightly; moving neither forward nor back. He wanted to insist that he neither wanted nor needed anything from Mickey; that he craved independence. That he had everything down to a T. But he couldn't. His mouth remained firmly unreceptive to reasonable thoughts or principalities; rationality replaced by childish need. Mickey had epitomised what Ian had sought for five months; something Ian had considered to be beyond Mickey's comprehension.

“I need you, huh?” Ian asked quietly.

“Yes,” Mickey affirmed, “You do.”

They lay there in silence for a moment, Mickey tracing circles across Ian's stomach with his forefinger. Ian suppressed a shiver. He wondered whether he should ask Mickey to stop.

“Turn round,” Mickey breathed suddenly, “Want to see you.”

“I'm a mess,” Ian mumbled.

Mickey laughed, “Come on. Humour me.”

Ian rolled his eyes but nevertheless turned onto his right side. Mickey's grip on him slackened and tightened again; locking Ian in place as they regarded each other.

Despite Ian's lingering irritation, he couldn’t deny that Mickey looked good. His dark hair was neat, slicked back with an unruly strand falling just above his left eye. And that mouth. That pretty fucking mouth. It had a curiously asymmetric quality, the soft curve of his upper lip giving way to the blunt heaviness of the lower.

Mickey smiled, “Yep, still pretty. ‘Specially with these,” he extended a finger and tapped Ian's fangs through his parted lips. Ian hadn't even realised they were still extended.

"Shit,” Ian went to rectify the situation only to have Mickey press his fingers against Ian's lower lip.

“Suits you,” he murmured, “Jesus, forgot how beautiful you are.”

Ian ducked his head, “You can talk.”

The compliment was out before he could stop it. He had always had trouble keeping his mouth shut in the presence of a pretty face. It'd had been easier to refrain from conversationally indulging Mickey when he had been faced away.

“You think I'm pretty, huh Gallagher?” Mickey teased.

“Fuck off,” Ian snapped, “Got eyes haven't I?”

Mickey's smile softened at that, his hand sliding up Ian's back and pulling him flat against him, "We're gonna have fun, you and me.”

“Yeah?” Ian whispered, breath hitching as Mickey's hand glided down his back, resting dangerously close to his ass, “Fun in what way?”

“In every way,” Mickey's eyes flickered to Ian's mouth briefly, “Every single fucking way.”

“Give me a hint,” Ian pressed, internally cursing himself as his already crumbling resolve converted to something else.

Mickey smiled, “All in good time, Gallagher.”

Ian sighed softly; trying to ignore the flare of low grade disappointment, “Tease.”

“Not arguing that. Now,” Mickey traced a finger down the side of Ian's face. It was red when Mickey pulled it back, “We need to sleep. Bleeds have started.”

Ian's brow furrowed, “What time is it?”

Mickey consulted his watch, “Nine am. As I say. Time to hit the hay, Princess.”

Ian wasn't about to argue, cringing as he felt the first wet slide of blood trickling from his nose. Mickey chuckled and swiped at it with his thumb before pulling Ian against him once more. Ian jolted as Mickey pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Go to sleep, Gallagher,” he said softly, “I'll be here when you wake up.”

“Good,” Ian mumbled and despite all the evidence to the contrary, he believed him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey knows how to rile Ian.

When Ian surfaced from the tangle of blankets and half formed thoughts, he was greeted by the inflective hum of muffled voices. He raised himself up into a sitting position and surveyed the familiar surroundings. As he had despondently predicted, the space beside him was empty; save for the vague impression of a second body.

Yet the tone of the conversational murmuring above him was in flux; the higher pitch interspersed with lows. His stomach clenched. Mickey was still here.

It was embarrassing how quickly he threw on his clothes, barely pausing to tame his unruly mane of hair before tearing up the steps towards the lounge.

The conversation stalled as Ian edged the door open. Mickey was leaning against the kitchen sink with his head cocked to one side, facing an evidently seething Lucia. He grinned at Ian and beckoned him over.

“Evening,” he said as Ian approached, “Me and Lucia were just discussing your diet.”

Lucia clicked her tongue, “Mickey seems to think I should let you feed at the club.”

Ian stared at her, confused, "Club?"

“Carfax,” Mickey supplied, “I'm guessing she hasn't told you about it.”

Ian shook his head slowly. Neither Lucia or Mandy had deigned to mention anything about a club before. He supposed they had deemed him too immature to handle the information.

“No,” Lucia said, “I haven't. He didn't need to know.”

Mickey scoffed, “What, that you run a whore house?”

Lucia stared daggers at him. Ian was surprised Mickey didn't combust on the spot, “It's not a fucking whore house.”

“Fine,” Mickey conceded with a smirk, “Brothel then, if we're being PC.”

“Ok, what the fuck are you talking about?” Ian asked quickly, sensing the impending standoff, “What club?”

With a final glare at Mickey, Lucia turned to him, “Mandy and I run a business. We employ humans to offer their services to vampires for profit. And by services,” she shot Mickey another nasty look, “I mean blood donation. In a way.”

Ian frowned, “So vamps pay to feed from humans?”

“Yes,” Lucia confirmed. 

“Is it even legal?”

“We’re a licensed club,” Lucia answered with a shrug, “Falls into the same category as strip and sex clubs, I guess.”

“Not that the police can do shit,” Mickey said, “They tend to stay the fuck away from fangers.”

“We've never had any trouble,” Lucia assured Ian, ignoring Mickey entirely, “As I say. We're not technically doing anything unlawful,” she gave him a pointed stare, “Which is why I can't let you feed there. We've got a clean record regarding human deaths and I'm afraid to say that would probably, if not certainly, change if I were to let you in. Do you see what I'm saying?”

Ian wanted to say no. He was so fucking hungry, he hadn't realised it before now. But there was no way in hell Lucia was going to be swayed. So he grudgingly settled for nodding in acknowledgement.

Lucia offered him a small smile, “Soon though, ok? Once we get everything evened out.”

“Sure,” Ian replied sullenly. He saw Mickey smirk in his peripheral vision.

“Right,” Lucia pushed away from the kitchen surface and checked her watch, “Got to check on things,” she turned to Mickey, “If you take Ian out, watch him. I mean it. I'm trusting you with this.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows, “I mean, you could just tell him to behave himself. He's right fucking here.”

Lucia rolled her eyes and turned to Ian, “Behave yourself. Don't want a repeat of the other night.”

Ian nodded, “There won't be.”

Lucia inclined her head, “Good.”

With one last pointed look at Mickey, she turned on her heel and crossed the room to the front door, “Don't make me regret this, Mickey,” she called over her shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey muttered, watching intently as Lucia yanked the door open and disappeared into the street beyond.

As the door shut with its usual creak, Ian heard Mickey laugh softly.

“Thank Christ,” he said, “Bitch has been chewing my ear off for the past hour. She’s fucking paranoid, man.”

  
“Scared I'll go off on one again?” Ian guessed, “I understand that.”

Mickey scoffed, “Like fuck you're listening to her. I'm here now and you're not following some pussy ass diet. I told you,” he grinned, “We're going to have fun.”

Ian tilted his head to one side, curious, “You going to tell me what that fun entails?”

“Hm,” Mickey stepped away from the sink and approached Ian slowly, “You're a smart guy, Gallagher. Take a guess.”

Ian swallowed, stomach churning in a horribly familiar fashion. He knew what Mickey was getting at, of course he did, and with the knowledge came a small echo of hesitancy, borne from some vague retention of morality.

Mickey's eyes glittered at Ian's apparently pained expression. He reached out and gently cupped Ian's face, his palm cool against Ian's skin, “You’re hungry, right?”

Ian nodded, “Yes.”

Mickey traced traced the curve of Ian’s jaw with his forefinger, “Don't fight it. It's pointless. Remember how good it felt last time? To drain that bitch dry?”

The next nod was instinctive. Who was Ian to deny the point?

“Well then,” Mickey inched closer, winding his hand around Ian's neck and pulling him forward.

“You can do it again,” They were chest to chest, faces inches apart.

“And again,” Ian's eyes flickered to Mickey's mouth. That pretty fucking mouth.

“And again,” Mickey slid his free hand down Ian's back, stopping just above the curve of his ass. Ian gasped as Mickey's leg slid between his.

“You want that, Gallagher?” Mickey rolled his hips slightly, pushing his thigh right against Ian's rapidly hardening cock. Ian bit back a moan and tried to resist the temptation to grind down.

“I need it as much as you do,” Mickey began walking Ian back, pushing him hard against the fridge, “So what do you think, hm?”

Ian could feel whatever meagre resolve he had left crumbling. Even more so as Mickey placed a hand either side of his head and ground against him once. Ian heard his own resultant moan as if from a distance; his dick throbbing and pulsing.

“Yes,” Ian felt the word force it's way past his lips, “Oh god, yes.”

Mickey smiled, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “Good.”

Ian almost whined as Mickey stepped back. He was hard too, cock straining against the zipper of his jeans. There was that at least. It wasn't just Ian.

"You get riled so easily, Gallagher," Mickey said, reaching down to adjust himself, "Bet you're an animal in the sack, huh?”

Ian chewed his lip, “That isn't your business,” he murmured, his voice entirely absent of conviction.

Mickey laughed softly, “Maybe you should make it my business some time.”

Ian felt his dick twitch at that; mind churning out a myriad of ideas as to how he could make his sexual prowess Mickey's business. Fuck, he would rock his fucking world.

"Maybe I should,” he allowed himself to move forward, “Think you could take me?”

Mickey hummed, “I'd take anything you gave me.”

“Bet you would,” Ian murmured, half to himself.

They appraised each other, the tension between them palpable. Mickey cleared his throat.

“We need to feed, man,” he said.

Ian nodded, “Where?”

Mickey grinned, “Where d’you think?”

The answer presented itself almost instantly, “You want to feed in that AIDS hole?”

Mickey raised his eyebrows, “Never had you pegged for a homophobe.”

“I'm not,” Ian said with a shrug, “Doesn't mean I like the thought of draining some flamboyant queen in heels and a tiara.”

“Who said anything about heels and tiaras?” Mickey smirked, “Place is full of fangbangers. Just got to find one who's down for a threesome.”

“Confident, huh?”

“Why not?” Mickey said, “You're pretty, I'm pretty. We'll pull fairly quickly.”

Ian chuckled; Mickey's unabashed narcissism both amusing and endearing. Mickey frowned at the reaction but neglected to comment, merely responded with a smile and inclined his head in the direction of the door.

“Let’s ride, Gallagher,” he said, tugging Ian by the forearm, “We got people to meet.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey get lucky.
> 
> (I am so sorry this has taken so long to update. Been getting overly stressed by the General Election.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: lots of gore, blood and strange kinks.

They had left the pheromonic throng of sweat slicked bodies and groping hands a little after two. Fairytale, flamboyant hell hole as ever it was, had certainly delivered. It had taken them no less than ten minutes for a preppy looking north sider to approach them after clocking their untouched bottles of Tru Blood; spewing thinly veiled euphemisms and shitty chat up lines. “Don't worry, I won't impale you with a stake?” Come the fuck on.

Ian and Mickey feigned interest, of course. They needed to guy to trust them. They laughed at his jokes; pretended to sympathise at his homeless stint after being booted out by his homophobic parents. They even indulged him when he probed about their ages and the how's and why’s of how they were turned; spinning some yarn about how their everlasting love was secured by the prospect of living forever.

“So are you two, like, exclusive?” he had asked, simulating nonchalance.

“Hm,” Mickey had turned to Ian, “I don't know. Are we?”

Ian had had to choke back a snigger, “Exceptions can be made, I guess.”

And so, that was how Ian found himself pushed flat against the white washed wall of the guy's apartment with a hand thrust down his pants and bared throat in his face.

He heard Mickey chuckle nearby before the guy was abruptly yanked away. Ian's breath hitched as Mickey's hands slid to his hips and pulled him forward. He leant in, lips brushing against Ian's ear.

“Gonna put on a show for him, Firecrotch? Gonna rile him up?”

Ian strained forward for a kiss, only for Mickey to seize his wrists and pin them above his head. The guy beside them groaned and moved forward, only for Mickey to hiss, “No, you sit down. We'll get to you.”

The man huffed slightly but nevertheless disappeared from Ian's peripheral vision. He heard the faint squeak of mattress springs and laboured breathing; followed by the sound of a zipper being yanked down.

Mickey held his gaze, grip tightening around Ian's wrists as he held them in place with one hand. He got a fistful of Ian's hair in the other.

“What do you want, huh?” Mickey asked.

Ian took a steadying breath, “Kiss me,” he said.

Mickey regarded him for a moment, seemed to hesitate before leaning forward and finally pressing their mouths together.

Ian arched against him; pulling ineffectually against the iron grip on his wrists. Low, pleading sounds resonated from deep in his throat; coaxed from him with every pass of Mickey's tongue against his.

With a sharp nip to Ian's lower lip, Mickey squeezed his ass, releasing Ian's wrists in favour of pushing his hand beneath Ian’s shirt and pinching his nipples; one and the other, until Ian dropped his head and unbuttoned the top four buttons of Mickey’s shirt. He wanted more, so much more. Heeding the implore of high key desperation, he shoved a hand between them and rubbed the hard line of Mickey's cock through his pants.

Mickey stilled and placed a grounding hand on Ian's chest, “You forgetting we have company?”

“Fuck,” Ian whispered, grabbing hold of Mickey's shoulders, “Need you.”

Mickey kissed his cheek softly, “You need something else.”

Ian nodded, attempting to engage his addled brain. Base drives fused and needs interlocked; hunger and arousal becoming one.

Mickey stepped aside and turned to the third, temporarily neglected man in the room. The guy had his hand cupped over his cock and was kneading it gently, “Liked the show, huh?”

“So hot,” the guy agreed, nodding vigorously, “Want you both.”

“You do?” Mickey wound an arm around Ian and jerked him away from the wall, “You think he wants it enough, Ian?”

Ian appraised the man for a moment, “What's your name?”

“Kyle,” the man answered breathlessly, “My name's Kyle.”

“Well Kyle,” the inflective shift in Mickey's tone was somewhat mocking, “Lie back. Spread your legs.”

Kyle did it without question, the obscene jut of his boner tenting his loose cotton pants. Mickey gave Ian a tiny shove in the direction of the bed.  
  
“Get on top,” he said, “Kiss him.”

“Fucking bossy,” Ian muttered, crossing the short space to the bed.

Kyle smiled at him, eyes wide and dark, “So, I guess we're going to get to know each other, huh?”

Ian crawled onto the bed and moved to hover above Kyle’s pliant body, “Guess so.”

“C’mere,” Kyle slid a hand around the back of Ian's head and pulled him down roughly.

The kiss was disappointing, in all honesty. Kyle wasn’t exactly practiced; his tongue everywhere at once, his teeth clashing against Ian's, strands of saliva connecting their mouths. His hands skated the length of Ian's back, arching up to rub against him.

“You feel so good,” he gasped, “Fuck, you feel amazing.”

Ian almost rolled his eyes but resisted. His eyes latched onto the pulse throbbing in Kyle’s neck; the thick smell of concealed blood overpowering. He bit back a moan as Kyle threw back his head, baring the straining expanse of his throat.

The mattress dipped beside them followed by a hand palming Ian's ass. He hitched his hips back reflectively, moaning into the less than satisfying kiss.

“Sit up,” came the quiet command, “Move up the bed.”

Ian disentangled himself immediately and shuffled up to kneel beside Kyle’s head. Mickey mimicked the movement and situated himself on the other side.

Kyle looked between them, eyebrows furrowed, “What’re you doing?”

Mickey smiled and ran a hand through his hair, leaning down to kiss him softly, “We give you what you want. You give us what we need. Quid pro quo.”

Kyle’s breath hitched as realisation dawned, “You’re gonna feed from me?”

Ian bit back a gasp as Kyle's heart rate rocketed; the velocity of his blood flow quickening in response, “What did you expect?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Did you really think this was going to be all about sex?” Mickey said, “Our appetite really didn't cross your mind?”

Kyle sputtered, “No, I mean, yes and no. I thought I'd be the exception to the rule. Thought you'd fed already.”

Mickey sniggered, “What, you thought we were actually drinking that bottled sludge you saw us with? Why drink that shit when you can have the real thing? We're not so big on plagiarism.”

“Plagiarism?” Kyle repeated, nonplussed.

“Tru Blood is a manufactured copy of human blood. Ergo, plagiarism. Duh.”

“Mick...” Ian managed to groan. He was reaching the end of his tether; a coil pulled too tight. Soon it'd snap.

“Have at it, Gallagher,” Mickey said, reaching down and pulling Kyle's head to the side by the hair. Kyle made a low protesting sound but didn't actually wriggle away. Not that Ian would've cared if he had.

Ian reared his head back and allowed his fangs to protract with a click. He heard Mickey do the same as he leant in and swiped the skin above Kyle's pulse with his tongue. Kyle kneaded his thigh roughly.

“Turn me,” he whispered, “Quid pro quo right? I give you what you need, you give me what I want. I want this.”

Neither Mickey or Ian said anything. Kyle turned his large eyes to Mickey, “You're the shot caller, right? So, turn me.”

Mickey regarded him with a flat expression before running his hand down the length of Kyle's body; toying with the hem of his shirt before burrowing beneath it. Ian watched him, nipping Kyle's throat gently, wondering idly where this unprecedented sense of restraint had come from. Perhaps watching Mickey slowly unbutton Kyle's shirt and run his hands over his chest had something to do with it.

“You're such a fucking tease,” Kyle murmured, “Please. Just do it.”

Mickey licked a slick path up Kyle's abdomen, pausing just below the jut of his ribs.

“No,” Mickey said softly before sinking his teeth into Kyle’s stomach.

It was almost akin to permission and Ian took it gladly; tearing into the molten heat of Kyle's throat. The first jets of arterial spray startled him, a predecessor to the unrelenting torrent of blood that followed. It surged over his lips, filling his mouth with the raw, salty taste of life, rivulets dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

The taste was all he could remember, all he could think about, all he could ever need. Kyle shuddered beneath him, pushing feebly against Ian's thigh. A minor irritation, Ian ignored it easily. His vision blossomed red, black, red again, great gaudy blooms of light and darkness that blotted out the room, Mickey and Kyle. He bit down harder and clasped Kyle more tightly and locked him down, connecting them in this final rush of ecstasy.

“That's it,” Mickey's voice echoed overhead, “Take what you need.”

Time seemed to stop; suspended in this moment of pure bliss. Everything was almost too good to bear; his body thrumming with energy, his mind racing. He was only dimly aware of Mickey's hand pressed against the small of his back, thumb caressing the bared skin gently. Anything disconnected from the slowing flow of blood was irrelevant. It didn't matter.

Only when Kyle's veins ran dry and his body stilled in Ian's grip did Ian draw back; appeased and satiated.

“Come here.”

Ian almost yelped as a pair of strong hands pushed him backwards onto the now drenched sheets. He looked up just in time to see Mickey shove Kyle to the side before bearing down on Ian.

Mickey tasted of blood, his tongue forcing it's way into Ian's mouth so violently it felt like an assault. Ian could only feel the noises he was making, vibrating deep in his throat as Mickey sucked and bit at his lower lip, dragging his tongue across the dregs of blood. Ian clamped his thighs tight around Mickey's hips, rocking up against the hard, hot bulge of his cock. Mickey's deft hands fumbled at Ian's pants, pulling them halfway down his thighs, nails scraping hard along the backs of them as he pulled him closer.

The overwhelming sensations of Mickey's hand and mouth merged into a feeling that was almost past endurance. The blood drying stickily on his palm made Ian's skin sear, warmth creeping up from his balls to his stomach before pooling deep in his chest. His hips thrust upwards; wild, jerky movements beyond his conscious control as he fucked himself into the tight, rough heat of Mickey's fist.

Mickey's eyes blazed as he worked Ian, lips stained red, cheeks faintly flushed. Ian felt his body begin to tense. His skin prickled with heat, toes curling, thighs trembling. Mickey bent low until his lips were pressed against Ian's ear.

“Come on, come.”

Ian's hips stuttered, voice breaking as Mickey's name forced itself past his teeth, cock jerking as he came.

Mickey kissed him through it, cupping Ian's face with his free hand. Ian was only dimly aware that he was shaking. He flopped back against the bed, gasping like a landed fish. His head spun, limbs unresponsive with the sudden release of tension.

Mickey pulled back slowly, forefinger tracing Ian's jaw, murmuring softly, voice soothing.

Ian felt that he should move, reply, do something. Instead he simply lay in a passive heap, unmoving with his head turned to the side. His mental processes had converted to white noise; thoughts indecipherable.

He felt Mickey shift on top of him, rolling to the side and pulling Ian against his chest, “You good?”

It took a several long moments to engage his brain; to excavate some coherent response from the incessant buzzing. Good felt like an understatement. A colossal one. He couldn't recall ever feeling so at peace.

“I'm fine,” he replied dumbly, “So fine.”

Mickey grinned and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, “I bet you are.”

They stayed like that. Ian didn't quite know for how long but a sudden thought made Ian jolt. He turned his head to look at Mickey.

“Did you –” Ian gestured downwards, “Do you want to get off? Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

Mickey smiled, “Nah,” he stroked Ian's cheek, “I'm ok, man. Don't think you're in a position to move, much less jack me off.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, don't worry about it. Just lie still. Get your breath back.”

“Don’t need to breathe,” Ian mumbled, pulling Mickey's arm more securely around his waist, “Vampire remember?”

Mickey laughed quietly, “Smart ass. Just go to sleep, yeah? I'll wake you before dawn.”

Ian closed his eyes against the glare of the light fixture, grounded by Mickey's body against his. Sleep came with relative ease.


End file.
